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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29196546">there are lights in this house</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/downthedarkpath/pseuds/downthedarkpath'>downthedarkpath</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Established Relationship, Gratuitous use of space, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Purple Prose, Relationship Study, Slice of Life, Songfic, prose, space</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:22:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29196546</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/downthedarkpath/pseuds/downthedarkpath</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s silence. It’s the sort of silence that isn’t uncomfortable, but is still laced in poison. Like the limbo before an aeroplane takes off, or the screeching of metal on metal before a train pulls into the station. George tastes it on the tip of his tongue and feels sick.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You have to go now,” Dream says.<i></i></i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there are lights in this house</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this was written for one of my mutuals on twitter, taking a lot of inspo from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIMDKhYxV38">why wont you love me</a> by 5 seconds of summer.! hope u like it&lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>George sighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sits just in the window of his bedroom, balancing on the sill. Outside, the air is cold, and the night is only half way done. Condensation drips down the glass when he leans his forehead against it, feeling the cold seep under his skin and stay there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows there are stars, hidden beneath light pollution and clouds, and he feels them staring at him. George relishes in their eyes on him, that at least there is someone watching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at his phone, beside him. Missed calls, three of them, and a Facetime request from Dream. He ignores all of them, swiping to clear them before turning his attention back to all the planets he can’t see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It buzzes with another call. He lets it run out, watches the missed call notification pop up before Dream tries calling again. It’s late, and he’s alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking at the future is so much harder with his eyes open. George blinks and sees shapes behind his eyelids. When he looks out the window again, he sees them imprinted on the glass, and he lifts a finger to trace them. He takes his finger away cold and wet. It almost feels real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone rings again. George knows this will be the final time. He’s okay with that, for now. He’ll wake up tomorrow and see all of his regrets painted in the constellations.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His only solace is that the sun will set that evening.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up slumped against the wall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are no more missed calls on his lock screen. His hands are cold when he swipes and calls Dream back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t pick up last night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” George agrees, “I didn’t. I was asleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only a half-truth, and Dream doesn’t believe him. George knows him well enough to know that, especially when he sighs. “Okay. How did you sleep?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not bad,” George says. “I have to go soon, though. I have work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s Saturday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I picked up a weekend shift,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream scoffs, “it’s seven in the morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George doesn’t reply. There’s no point in defending himself anymore; not now. Dream sees through him without ever really looking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you need to go,” he says, in the sort of painfully honest tone where everything sounds like it hurts to say, but it would hurt even more not to say anything at all, “just go. Don’t drag it out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need to go,” George says. He doesn’t, not yet. The clouds from last night have lifted just slightly, but the sun has already risen high enough to cover the stars. He looks over the window sill, staring at the sky like he’s never seen it before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He listens to Dream exhales. He swallows loud enough that the phone microphone picks it up. “...Okay. Just make it quick,” he says, “when you do need to go. Make it quick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George isn’t sure what he’s saying anymore. He feels like he’s looking Dream in the eye through a funhouse mirror - it’s still them, he thinks. But they look different. Everything does. There’s a wedge between them and Geore doesn’t know who forced it there in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you?” he asks. “Would you make it quick?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can see Dream biting his lip. When George closes his eyes, he sees Dream looking away, like he can’t bear it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream says, “yeah. I think I would.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George isn’t sure if he believes him. “Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s silence. It’s the sort of silence that isn’t uncomfortable, but is still laced in poison. Like the limbo before an aeroplane takes off, or the screeching of metal on metal before a train pulls into the station. George tastes it on the tip of his tongue and feels sick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to go now,” Dream says for him. George knows it’s true as soon as the words leave his mouth, even if he hadn’t been thinking them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he says. He says, “goodbye, Dream,” like he means it, like it isn’t the last time he’ll say it today.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream doesn’t reply. He hangs up; George listens to the dial tone for as long as he can.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t that long at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sun does not set for a long time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watches it out the window - George barely moves for the day. He rests his cheek and then his forehead against the window pane, feeling it gradually grow colder beneath his touch. He faces North and watches as the sky begins to fall apart around him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, the sun begins to melt over the rooftops. He watches it bleed red and orange in the centre, leaking a rich gold all over the atmosphere. He feels like a king, holding a universe in his hand and destroying it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone won’t ring for hours yet, but he stares at it expectantly. He waits for Dream’s face to appear, for the olive branch he’ll extend and never take. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For now, here, at dusk, George breathes. He always does. Life is easy as the sky leaks oil. He rests, stuck between the day’s sun and the night’s cloud. Soon, he will suffocate between them. But soon is not yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sunset takes several hours. By the end, he’s tired. He’s ready to look the moon in the eye and wait for her to take him. Dream will call him, and he’ll ignore it until the next day. This is a given.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He will be alone tonight. Dream will lend him his voice, and his words, and his love. George won’t take them. He won’t reciprocate them. It’s the sort of pain that makes everything worth it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moon asks him one question, and he has no answer for her. He watches with wide eyes, watches condensation and constellations and shapes behind his eyelids. She watches with him, and tonight, there are no clouds. He sees the stars and the way they look at him; like he is loved, like he is hated, like he is alone and lonely and alone and together all at once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She rises. The stars are bright. They see him for what he is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream calls. George does not pick up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading, leave a comment and such!</p>
<p>come say hi on <a href="https://twitter.com/ERR0RGEO">twitter</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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